in the cold sky, give us light-we are sur
prised at how much we can see. But we hear
rather than see the tiger. Now he roars with
full force only 40 or 50 feet from us-a thun
dering sound that makes our hair stand on
end and our blood run cold.
As suddenly as they began, the roars stop.
In the silence, our senses heightened by the
flow of adrenaline, we can hear the faintest
cricket chirp. An owl calling softly overhead
startles us unreasonably. The crackling
sound of footsteps on dry leaves and twigs
comes toward us.
In the faint light we see the tiger emerging
from the underbrush. He advances purpose
fully and steadily. When he is close, perhaps
20 feet, we turn on our feeble flashlight. Its
beam is just enough to identify Abu. He
walks past without a glance at us.
For four hours Abu walks around and
roars, his volume never diminishing. Never
before or since have we heard a tiger roar or
produce any other sound for such a sus
tained period.
SAMBARS become compulsive lake
visitors as March ends. Herds of as
many as 30 animals descend from the
hills two and sometimes three times a day to
drink and to feed greedily on the water lilies.
To reach the water, the sambars must walk
through tall grass that fringes the lakes. This
is when they are most vulnerable to ambush,
in which Abu specializes.
One morning we track Abu to a lake
where his pugmarks disappear into the
grass. They do not reappear at the other
side. We place ourselves with a good view
of where we think the tiger will make
his rush. Sambars arrive at the lake but
stay on the opposite shore. Constantly they
test the air with their sensitive noses.
More deer come as the day wears on; the
increase in numbers gives them confidence.
Walking through the shallows, nibbling
at waterweeds, they slowly move toward
Abu's hiding place.
We see him begin to stalk. Slowly he
creeps to the edge of the grass. Only a thin
screen hides him. He lies down. None of the
deer can see the tiger sitting immobile some
60 feet from them.
A doe with a small fawn at heel finally de
tects Abu, perhaps scenting him on the light
breeze. She wheels. Before she has taken a
single running step, Abu, in an explosion of
power and speed, bursts from cover and
chases the herd into deeper water.
In four gigantic bounds Abu pounces on
the fawn, pushes it underwater, and grabs it
in his powerful jaws. He shakes it. Trotting
back to shore, he disappears into the grass.
The sambars have vanished. In a few mo
ments birds sing again and monkeys resume
play. It is as though nothing has happened.
For the first time in a decade of tiger
watching, we have witnessed a kill.
OWEVER RESOLUTE Abu is in the
chase, he is even more tenacious
when it comes to defending his kill.
Blue and I know this too well. We watch for
hours one day as he struggles to reclaim his
sambar prey from the crocs in the lake and
then haul it ashore and into the forest. He is
eating hungrily when we approach him.
For Abu, our intrusion seems the last
straw. Without warning he charges, bound
ing right up to the front of the jeep-claws
lashing out, teeth bared.
We shout and wave our cameras and
whatever else we can grab in his face. At the
last moment he relents. Growling under his
breath, he returns to his kill. As we slowly
back away, he dashes snarling at us again,
but we are able to keep our distance.
We can only assume that the tensions of
the day have put Abu on edge. We had been
much closer to him before, and have been
since, without a threat from him.
A few days before we leave Ranthambhor
and tiger country, Abu and Links get togeth
er, and we manage to film them in some
times tender, sometimes violent intimacy.
Our tiger story, thanks to Abu the super
tiger, is complete.
[
Beauty of the beast reflectsfrom a forest pool that draws animals of Kanhafrom
great distancesduring the dry season. The tigress is ever aware of other tigers in
her vicinity in order to avoid encounters. Brought back from the edge of extinction,
the tiger remains an enduringpartof India's wildlife heritage.
Tiger! Lord of the Indian Jungle
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